


tell the angels

by oftachancer



Series: here in this moment [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Cole knows too much, Demons, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, I am still figuring out tagging., Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, PTSD, Possession, Spirits, Thank God the Slow Burn is Over, The Ostwick accent is Scottish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-16
Packaged: 2019-08-03 03:59:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16318733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oftachancer/pseuds/oftachancer
Summary: Aran Trevelyan had lived a quiet, sheltered life in the Starkhaven Chantry as a historian and archivist’s assistant. Now, he’s been thrust into the Fade, multiple wars, and multiple timelines. Is it an accident? Fate? Can he survive it?After the events of 'In Your Heart Shall Burn'. In a dark, freezing cavern, Trevelyan finds something abandoned and brings it home with him. Sometimes, the things you find in the dark never let go of you - unless someone who cares shines a light on them.





	1. you don’t need me

It had been a terrible plan. Crazy, in the way that every plan they’d had so far had been crazy, which had made him think that maybe - maybe - it might work.

Had it? Would he ever know?

He squinted into the shadows. Ice and snow and ragged rock.

Aran rolled to his knees, every muscle aching.

 _You’re too bright_ , a distant voice, vaguely familiar, filtered into his mind like an exhale. _Too bright. I can’t see you._

“I’m here,” Aran gasped, breath percolating in his cold-serrated lungs. “I’m hallucinating, but I'm here. I might be dead.”

_You hurt. The dead don’t hurt. I want to help._

“I’m open to suggestions.” He staggered as he righted himself, wrapping his arms around himself as he looked for a way out. Ahead, he saw the catch of light on ice. He could make it. He would. He had to. He stumbled towards it, ducking under a frozen archway and moving stiff, sore muscles forward. There was a sharp pain in his leg and he had a disconcerting feeling that looking would reveal bone sticking out into the freezing air. Better not to look. Just keep moving, as long as he could. Melted ice dripping on bare rock, freezing on impact. The creak of ancient boards beneath his feet. “I’ve lost my mind.”

 _Where did you lose it?_ the voice asked, soft cotton and the scent of mountain air.

“I don’t- know? In the staggeringly bad breath of an archdemon?” Aran asked, stuttering through chattering teeth. His voice echoed around him, bouncing back. “Under an avalanche of my own design?”

_You’re not there. You’re where you are. It’s different. If your mind is there, you need to make a new one here._

Aran laughed, albeit a little hysterically, “Right. I’ll try that.”

_You laugh when you’re sad. You laugh when you’re scared. Do you also laugh when you’re happy?_

“Sometimes.” Aran paused, looking around. The light was gone now. Just shadows on shadows in the dripping ice.

_How can you tell the difference?_

He found another tunnel and crawled through, “I don’t think I want to.”

_You think wrong._

“Thanks,” the ersatz, likely-dead Herald of Andraste muttered ironically.

 _Not like that. You think you want to drown and dive. You don’t. You can dance in darkness._ A fluttering touch of warm wind brushed his ears. _You can dream and disregard. Dart dash dare dazzle dawn then day._

“That’s a lot of alliteration, friend- ah!” A low grunt wrenched itself out of Aran as he stumbled, collapsed, the sound too large for the too small space. It shocked him. The noise. The crack of ice around him. The crack of bone beneath and through his flesh. The wet that tracked the ash and dirt on his cheeks. His body leaking the pain out through tears. Tears were better than blood. He was sure that was leaking out, too. Maker, but it hurt. If he just stayed here, just for a while, until the pain stopped lancing through his leg and spine.

_You’re full of words. You roll in them. They all start the same. Dashing, devilish, dastardly. Dorian. Dorian._

Aran squinted, rubbing his hands over his face. “Well, that’s not helping,” he muttered. The last thing he needed was to be thinking of the mage, all fire and darkness, and stinging, captivating light. Cursing the cold, twisting his staff in his hands, around him, like a dance, a dervish, warding away everyone and everything. Drawing them close and pushing them away again. Tempting and taunting. The image warmed him, fingers tingling with new sensation. Alright. Maybe he should think about him. “Never mind. Do your thing.”

_Disguised, defying, damn him, the degenerate, dangling, deflecting, just out of reach._

Aran wet his lips, clawing his way back to his feet, jaw set against the agony as he put pressure on his right leg. Definitely broken. Fuck. “Right on the bloody nose,” he hissed, shuddering. “If I survive this-“

He felt the vibration resonating through him, shaking him viscerally like a dog with a dead rabbit before he heard the sound. The half-scream, half-song of a woman in black, shrouded in shadows. The cold cry hit him like a sword, like ten, piercing him to his core. Desperation pouring through him, leeching him of every last dreg of hope that had survived, clustered around embers, inside of him.

A shudder rolled through Aran’s muscles as he braced himself against the song. Maker, but it was inviting. It was everything he’d already believed, wasn’t it, concentrated down to one tune. Hopeless, empty, and alone.

 _Don’t listen!_  That distant voice was insistent, closer, warm. _Listen to me! I’m trying to find you! You have to fight it. You have to come!_

He couldn’t even summon the words to argue, to explain. Why should he? Everything he’d believed was a lie. They would know soon enough. He wasn’t blessed or lucky. He was nothing. Had always been nothing. The dregs of a barrel. Nothing. Last. Thief. Liar.

 _Plums tucked into pockets, secrets never to be shared, but you can taste them in private, hold them close, feel the juice on your chin. The letters that you took from the messenger’s bag so she wouldn’t have to read them, wouldn’t have to know how much he’d grown to hate her, her_ kind, _when they’d once shared a pony. Burning the papers one by one, watching the smoke curl, she would never know, never see him again. Not if he could help it. Whispers on the back stair, laughter in the old corridor, he wouldn’t marry her no matter what he said, the promises had already been made with the girl who owned the wheat fields, still you pressed his signet ring into her pocket when she passed, a keepsake, something to tell her it hadn’t been in her mind._

Tears were streaming down his cheeks. “-How?” Those were his. Those were his-

 _We’re the same. And not at all. I can help. Find the safety of the secrets again. I can show you the darkness, the good one. But you have to live. You have to come. We have so much to do._ Warmth suffused his body, not heat, but the warmth of touch, acceptance, it pressed into and through him, and there wasn’t space in him for the cold any longer. _You have to use the mark. You can open as well as close. It will help. Let it go, let it out, it won’t hurt like the other. You can open the path._

Aran gritted his teeth and lifted his hand, scraped and bloody, the mark on his palm already beginning to shift and buckle. Over, Cassandra had said. Healed. Only it wasn’t healed. Wasn’t over. Never would be. Trapped. It was trapped in him as he was trapped with it. The mark still gleamed and snapped, unraveling and remaking his skin endlessly in teeth-aching, eye-burning, spine-churning agony.

The next scream knocked him back against the wall, breath fleeing from his lungs. He couldn’t catch it, couldn’t stand, too dark, too cold, too tired- crystals of cold cracking and spreading over his eyes, under his skin, reaching into the deepest warmest parts and freezing them over like living winter.

_Don’t listen to them. Open. Open! Keep them out, keep me in, no!_

But he was open. There was nothing to shut. He was raw meat, dripping marrow, fleshless. Through the blurry, tangled web of cold and dark, he could feel… fingers inside of his own, flexing his where they were stiff and cold, the blur of something inside his skin. Open.

It did. The Fade light flashed eagerly, leaping in his palm, cracking the air in half and pulling open a discordant rift between here and there. She screamed again, but her cry was dim now, distant, swirling into the Fade. Then so was she, shrinking and stretching, resonating gold as she slipped back into that other world, her cries turning to laughter in those last moments.

He tugged his fist closed and the rift snapped shut behind them. Shadows cast out by light.

_Come home._

“Don’t- don’t leave.” He looked wildly around the cave, stupidly, because he hadn’t seen anyone this whole time anyway. But there he was, standing quietly against the stone wall, hands together at his stomach, watching him with those huge, pale eyes. Cole. His name was Cole.

“I’m here,” he whispered. “But you have to keep going.”

“Please-” Aran reached out his hand from where he knelt in the snow and as soon as his hand opened, Cole’s fingers laced with his, held him from the inside out. “I can’t-“

“I’ll take you,” the warmth whispered, gathering him up from the ground.

His body moved, aching, untethered, carried by the wind. The snow bit. His breath barely had space to fit beside it. He felt the darkness swallow him even as he was carried out into the night, through the snow, towards the light.


	2. i don’t believe you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: references to cutting and suicidal thoughts

The Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, Lord Aran Trevelyan sat on the floor, back pressed to the wall, staring at the toe of his boot. They’d spared no expense on the appointments of his room. Plenty of shelves for the book collection he was resuscitating. A strong wooden desk that was already laden with scrolls. The bed reminded him of the one he’d had in Ostwick, duck and goose feathers, so soft and pillowy, it felt like air. He hadn’t been able to sleep on it yet. In the eleven months since the Conclave, he’d gotten so used to pallets and cots that the softness felt unnatural on his spine. Maker. Eleven months. Less than a year. His entire life was upside down.

The sword of the Inquisitor leaned against the wall opposite, large and heavy. He’d needed two hands to lift the damned thing, and it was - supposedly - a one-handed blade. If that wasn’t a metaphor for the position he found himself in, he didn’t know what was.

“It scares you. It doesn’t have to.”

He didn’t need to look. That voice had been in his head for hours, bolstering him through snow and ice and exhaustion. “They want more from me than I have to give.”

“Yes.”

“What happens when they realize that?”

“I don’t know.”

Aran tilted his head back, peering up at the scuffed bottoms of Cole’s boots and the wide-eyed face peering down through them from the loft above him. “I’m not a leader.”

“You are because they follow you. It’s not a thing you get to choose for yourself. That’s where Corypheus is wrong. He wants to be a god, so he makes them worship him. You don’t ask them to follow, but they do.” Cole hopped down to the ground, landing catlike on the floor beside him, his hand unfolding from his side to rest open between them. “I’ll take you.”

Skin prickled, flesh tightened. Aran held his breath, waiting.

“To the shadows. You miss them. The not being seen. I can show you the places.”

Aran stood quickly, taking that slender, ethereal hand. It felt like wind, like gentle lightning.

“Let me in.”

Familiar words. Half-remembered. He didn’t know what was meant, but he wanted to. He wanted to let Cole in. As though the blonde weren’t already stitched into him as sure as his own patchwork armor. Cole held his hand, real and present, then… shifted, stuttered, slipped into his hand. The arm followed the hand. Then Cole was sliding through him, the warm wind sweeping through his organs, his muscles, his skin; he felt like a kite, so much cloth stretched on an endless summer wind. A low moan slid from Aran’s throat as he felt fluttering lungs shifting beside and inside his own, a second heartbeat beating too fast… or was that his own?

_Come with me._

“How?”

 _Follow_.

They moved through the keep and it was like a miracle… a strange semblance of the ersatz invisibility he’d experienced in his life before the Conclave. He could feel Cole around him, inside him, padding effortlessly, and he matched the movements as best he could, the sensation strange and exhilarating as their bodies overlapped, shifting and imperfect. People looked at him, then past him, without recognition. They passed Cassandra on their way to the stairs to the ramparts. She saw him, but didn’t see him, then focused back on her swordwork. Cole showed him the corner ramparts where no one went. A path down into the gardens that led to a storage room that had yet to be cleared of old lumber and cobwebs. A room full of shelves down the hall from the kitchens, where the scent of bread was the only evidence of human existence. They ended in the top floor of the tavern, breathing lightly, sharing the same space, leaning over the top railing to watch the mini-ecosystem of the tavern at work. The Chargers singing along with the minstrel. Cabot grumbling as he carried mugs to agents. Sera giggling: sighting down the line of her arrow and waiting for her targets to notice and scurry to the sides.

Aran gasped helplessly as Cole phased out of him; smooth, summer breeze hands slipped up to cover his mouth and draw him back from the railing, out of sight. “Now you can see. And they can’t,” Cole whispered, that same warm wind brushing the back of his ear.

“Cole-”

“I won’t tell.” Aran felt the pressure of his savior’s forehead against his shoulder. “I’ll help you be more like what you are.”

Then the warmth, the pressure, the sound of breath were gone. Empty silence. He was alone. Alone.

His hands began to shake again, almost instantly. His stomach coiled. Shadows descended in the periphery of his vision, blotting out all the mirth and joy from below.

He wandered, out through the window in the rafters to the ramparts, down the stairs, through the courtyard. Now, when they looked at him, people saw. They bowed their heads, murmured gratefulness and greetings. “Inquisitor.” “Inquisitor.” As if he needed a fucking reminder. The tension that had gone crushed him once more like a wave. An ache in his head and his heart. Sighing, he arranged his features into an impassive smile. His fleeting escape was over.

Cullen had asked him to come with him to meet some of the trainers they’d arranged to bring to the keep for him. He’d recognized Aran’s lack of battle experience at Haven and wanted to correct that. Immediately.

His shoulders tightened as he strode down the stairs towards the lower courtyard where Cullen had set up his temporary center of operations, finding Cullen, Cassandra, Vivienne, and Solas in the midst of an argument.

“This thing is not a stray puppy you can turn into a pet,” Vivienne was the closest to shouting he’d ever heard. “It has no business being here.”

Solas sneered at her, “Wouldn’t you say the same of an apostate?”

“Inquisitor,” Cassandra said, spotting him, seeing him. “I wondered if Cole was perhaps a mage, given his unusual ability.”

“...what ability?” Aran asked, wondering if she had seen him before after all.

“He can cause people to forget him. Or even fail entirely to notice him. These are not the abilities of a mage. It seems that Cole is a spirit.”

“It is a demon,” Vivienne said distinctly.

He felt cold, suddenly. Of course. Of course he was. How else could he have been in that cave? In his mind? In his body? Why hadn’t it occurred to him to even wonder how he did those things? Grateful. He’d been so fucking grateful. Questioning it might have taken it away.

“If you prefer,” Solas was saying, “although the truth is somewhat more complex.”

“I’m not sure how much more complexity I need, Solas.” Aran looked at his hand reflexively, watched the flecks of green light peek through the lines of his palm. “Is he a spirit or a demon or what?” He tried to keep his voice steady.

“In fact, his nature is not so easily defined.”

Cassandra frowned. “Speak plainly, Solas. What are we dealing with?”

“Demons normally enter this world by possessing something. In their true form, they look bizarre, monstrous.”

Then that settled it, Aran thought. Cole wasn’t bizarre or monstrous. He was… haunted. Warm.

“But you claim Cole looks like a young man,” Cassandra insisted. “Is it possession?”

“No. He has possessed no one, and yet he appears human in all respects.” Solas turned to Aran seriously, “Cole is unique, Inquisitor. More than that, he wishes to help. I suggest you allow him to do so.”

Aran swallowed, focusing on keeping his features neutral. “What do you mean by possession?”

“Spirits and demons cross over from the Fade by attaching themselves to something in this world.”

“Attaching… how?” he asked, thinking of that warm wind filling him, passing through him.

“It’s difficult to explain to one without a background in the Fade or rift magic…”

“Try me,” Aran ground out through gritted teeth.

Solas hummed thoughtfully, peering at him as though asking a question, but Aran had no idea what that question might be. “There are a couple of methods. The first would be akin-” he began, slowly, “to the way a fisherman reels in his catch. Small moments of shared motivations and thoughts that build over time, overlapping, until the will of the hunted is surpassed by the will of the demon. That happens without any kind of physical form present outside of the Fade. The second is closer to submersion - the demon simply steps from the Fade into the form of a living being and sublimates the personality, the energy and thought, of that being until it is no more. But Cole has willfully manifested in human form without possessing anyone.”

“The demons who came through the Breach or through the rifts weren’t possessing anything,” Aran said, mostly to himself, trying to figure out if his will had been in any way nudged. Shifted. It didn’t feel like it. Would he know?

Solas smiled gently. “They were drawn through the rifts against their will. Driven mad by this world. But Cole predates the Breach. From what we can tell, he has lived here for months, perhaps years. He looks like a young man. For all intents and purposes, he is a young man. It is remarkable.”

He realized suddenly that they were all watching him expectantly. What did they want him to say? “I should hear what Cole has to say for himself,” he temporized. “Where is he now?”

“If none of us remember him, he could be anywhere,” Cassandra said, sounding extremely uncomfortable with the idea. How much less comfortable would she be if she knew they’d walked right through her attention only an hour ago? Probably best not to mention it.

As the others looked around, trying to spot the missing young man, Aran saw him, moving through the healers tents at the other side of the courtyard. He headed there and the others’ gazes didn’t follow him. He paused, hesitating, a few feet from Cole as the blond knelt beside a pale soldier.

“Haven,” Cole said, not looking up. “So many soldiers fought to protect the pilgrims so they could escape. Choking fear. _Can’t think from the medicine, but the cuts wrack me with every heartbeat. Hot white pain. Everything burns. I can’t. I can’t. I’m going to. I’m dying. I’m… dead._ ”

“You’re feeling their pain,” Aran whispered, not quite a question.

“It’s louder this close. With so many of them.”

“Would you like to go somewhere more comfortable?” he asked, watching the pain cross Cole’s features as he looked around at the wounded.

“Yes?” Cole answered, wondered. “But here is where I can help. _Every breath slower, like lying in a warm bath, sliding away. The smell of my daughter’s hair when I kiss her goodnight. Gone. Cracked brown pain. Dry. Scraping. Thirsty._ ” The blond tipped a thermos of water to the woman’s lips and she drank gratefully.

“Thank you,” the woman rasped.

“It’s alright.” He helped her lay back down, then stood, turning to Aran. “She won’t remember me.” He tilted his head to the side, large, light blue eyes like the midday sky peering at him curiously, worried and kind. “You don’t know how to trust me.”

Aran licked his suddenly dry lips. “Demons have the power to cloud people’s minds.”

“Yes,” Cole agreed solemnly. “I used to think I was a ghost. I didn’t know. I made mistakes. But I made friends too. Then a Templar proved I wasn’t real. I lost my friends. I lost everything.”

“You are real.” He wished, suddenly, that he hadn’t said anything. He was alive because of Cole, for the Maker’s sake. Did it matter, really, what he was? Where he came from? If he was trying to possess him, he thought with a wild kind of abandon, so what?

“I don’t want to,” Cole answered his thought. “If I did, you wouldn’t be you. I want you to be you. I have learned how to be more like what I am. It made me different but stronger. I can feel more. I can help.”

“I know.” Aran patted his sides, looking for pockets, found none, crossed his arms. It was that or touch the spirit. He wasn’t sure if he should. If he could trust himself to. “If you’re willing, the Inquisition could use your help.” He frowned. “I could. I- never even thanked you. For helping me. For the cave. For the blizzard. For today.”

“Yes, helping. I help the hurt. The helpless. There’s someone… _hurts. It hurts. Someone make it stop hurting. Maker, please._ The healers have done all they can. It will take him hours to die. Agony. He wants mercy. Help.”

Is that why? Am I hurting? Helpless? Is that why? Aran wondered, staring at Cole, fighting the urge to… what? Scream? Weep? Cole didn’t answer this time. Only waited. Looking between him and the fallen soldier. “Alright,” he sighed. “Help him.”

“It’s alright,” Cole whispered, sliding one long, thin dagger, like a fish knife, into the side of the man’s neck. There was no death rattle or gurgling hiss of ending. The soldier was there in that dying body, then he was gone. Cole looked up at him, peacefully. “I want to stay.”

“I’m glad,” Aran told him.

“You don’t want the answer anymore?”

Aran shook his head. “No.”

“You’re afraid to hear it.”

“Yes.”

Cole nodded. “If you change your mind, you can tell me.”

He didn’t. Vivienne was not pleased that he’d invited Cole to stay on. She started warding the landing she’d claimed for herself, pulling her bed into the center and running salt in a circle around it. Solas was overjoyed. Aran had never seen the elf so… chipper.

Days crawled past. He could barely breathe. The smell of food made him nauseous. The laughter filtering in through his window from below grated on his nerves, ice on teeth, swords on stone. Nevertheless, he managed. What choice was there?

He sat, brooding, sorting through the messages at the war table with his four advisors - Maker, ‘advisors’? He was a pawn for them. Played and left behind to die at the hands of that monster, to rot in the teeth of that archdemon, to freeze to death, alone, nowhere, surrounding by nothing but the bones of the other forgotten and left behind. The second they’d had him back, he was back on the board, on a pedestal, dressed up and given a prop and set up all over again to fall.

Cassandra dropped a thick chantry text to the table, interrupting Leliana’s report on… what had she been telling him? Ice. Cold. Dark. Blood. “Tell that demon… what does it call itself? ‘Cole’? Tell it to leave. He may not mean harm, but that does not mean he will not harm us.”

“I don’t believe he will,” Aran said, carefully keeping his eyes on the letter Leliana had just handed him. The words might well have been in qunlat, for all he paid mind to them. Another failing.

“Spirits are not creatures to take at face value.”

“Neither are Ben-Hassrath qunari or Tevinter mages or Orlesian spies or Grand Enchanters in a world of mage rebellions,” Aran brushed his fingers over the paper in front of him, his voice dry as dust, his attention intent upon the letter.

Cassandra threw up her hands, marching to the door. She paused in the doorway, to throw a disappointed and irritated “Be cautious with him, Inquisitor” back over her shoulder before she shut the thick door behind her.

Leliana casually reached out to turn the letter right side up, smiled, and turned to ask Cullen about the state of their soldiers in Orlais.

“If you have time, Inquisitor,” Josephine piped up, “I have several matters with which I would appreciate your attention. Your father, Bann Trevelyan, has contacted us regarding a possible venture to Ostwick-”

“No.” She looked askance at him. He immediately wished for his brothers’ flair for diplomacy and tact. Chalk it up to another failure of leadership. Every time he shut his eyes now, he saw the bodies, twisted and burning, of people who’d trusted him, now so much food for insects in Haven. Haven. What a crock of shit. “I’m not- I don’t want to draw Corypheus’ attention to my family or the people of Ostwick.” Partially true.

“Ah,” she said, with a quick nod. “Yes. A good point. Shall I write to him with our regrets or would you prefer to undertake the task yourself?”

“I’ll do it.”

“Excellent. Then there is the matter of the ascension of the Ghirain family in the Free Marches. Thomas Ghirain is the heir to the line, but he is currently one of our soldiers. It would be difficult to lose him, given our current numbers and his talent on the field, but there is the possibility that his taking the new seat in Reddon could give him an opportunity to spread word of the Inquisition among the nobility there and assure them of a fellow Free Marcher in leadership among us…”

“What does he want?”

“I…” She lifted her brows. “I really couldn't say.”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

She smiled, “Yes. I will do that. You’re very generous, Inquisitor.”

“Did you read the scrolls on siege tactics I had sent over to you?” Cullen interrupted.

“No. I didn’t-“ He swallowed the need to scream. Siege. Trebuchets. Snow. Dark. Blood. Cold. Frozen, dead hands clawing for the sky like spring flowers. “I don’t think I’ve seen them.” He looked at the letter now right side up in his hands. They’d trusted him and he’d failed them. All of them. Killed the dead. Cursed the living to mourn. “I don’t know-“

“Curses. That librarian was supposed to have brought them to your room yesterday. I’ll-”

“It’s alright. I’ll go get them.” Aran stood quickly, feeling the room spin, bile etching the back of his throat. “I could use the stretch.”

“As you wish, Inquisitor.”

Aran nodded wearily, dragging his bones up and out of the room. Maybe if he started calling them by their titles all the time in response, they would leave off his. He brushed through the main hall, taking care not to make eye contact with anyone lest he get caught in some other task. The scrolls were a good excuse to slip away for an hour or two in peace. Touch the knives. Look at himself in the reflection of steel, ice, cold, endless suffering dark. He slipped up the stairs, pausing at the top to pinpoint the librarian’s location. The man was determinedly difficult to locate sometimes. Maybe just go for the blades now. A quick end. No more dallying with cuts and slashes. He tilted his head, leaning back against the frame of the doorway, as he caught sight of stark, bright, flowing blue robes in one of the nearby alcoves. Dorian was tapping his fingers on the shelf, scanning titles, humming a jaunty tune.

Maker, he was beautiful. Aran’s eyes stung. Maybe just a moment, while he caught his breath from the stairs, he could just stay here and rest and watch the man read for a day or three. Idol in idolatry. Then throw himself over the railing.

“Inquisitor,” one of the agents murmured, walking past him.

Dorian turned, catching sight of him, “Fancy meeting you here.”

So much for that. Stupid. Pointless. He ground his teeth together, gaze darting everywhere. Anywhere.

“Inquisitor?”

Aran nodded stiffly and padded over to the alcove. “Find what you were looking for?”

The mage sighed, beleaguered, “It would be a better use of my time to simply order my library shipped from Minrathous… only one can’t be sure what kinds of blood curses might be laid on the crates before they reached me.”

“Between Leliana, Fiona, Vivienne, and all the mages here, that’s probably a chance we could take.” Probably. If not, only more names to add to the list of the dead at his hands.

“So daring!” Dorian murmured, lifting his brows. Maker, but he was pretty. And knew it. Surely, he did the brow lift just to show off those dark hazel eyes to perfection. Cool, distant, thoughtful. Too clever by half.

“What was that?” Aran asked, realizing he’d drifted off.

“I asked if you needed me for something? Are we off to kill things?”

“No. I’m just… looking for a scroll. Cullen wants me to learn siege tactics.” So I don’t get us all killed. Again.

“But then what would you need him for? The man clearly has no sense of self-preservation. To that point, neither do you.” He preened when Aran cracked a weary smile, “I could watch you run around Skyhold all day. Here and there you run, checking in on your followers. Why don’t they come to you? Feed you grapes, rub your shoulders? I suppose it’s more fun this way. For me, I mean. You’re rather… are you quite alright?”

Aran tucked his chin, cheeks hot despite the cold he couldn’t escape. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“You’re a touch wan,” he murmured, lightly touching the rogue’s cheek, turning him to the side, then bringing him back to peer into his eyes. “You need a bit more color in your cheeks.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste, “You’ve lost weight since we arrived here. Have you even bothered to see a healer?”

“I did. They fixed my leg. Don’t touch me.” He jerked his face from Dorian’s hold, shame searing his cheeks. Weak. He saw how weak he was. Did everyone? Tired. He was so tired. When was the last time he’d actually slept? Aran closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I’m fine.”

“So I see,” Dorian demurred, chilled.

“You can’t leave well enough alone, can you?”

“Apparently not.” Dorian’s smile flickered, unsure, “I’m not entirely- I distinctly recall you saying that you wished for me to share my observations-“

“About the Inquisition. Not me.”

“I-“

“You don’t know me.” Rage boiled in his stomach, eaten eagerly by exhaustion and despair, “And there’s no reason for you to start now.”

“How ominous,” Dorian murmured archly. “Has my father finally come up with a decent offer to buy me from you?”

“No.”

“I wouldn’t blame you. My father’s a very wealthy man.”

“Just leave me alone. Please. This… this thing that’s- it’s enough. I’ve had enough.”

“Of course,” Dorian answered smoothly. “The Herald of Andraste carrying on with a Tevinter mage. Preposterous.”

“I’m serious.” Aran’s voice cracked slightly. Not surprising, he felt like he was chewing glass. When he dared to lift his gaze, he stared. Dorian. Was. Smiling.

“I didn’t doubt it for a moment. Too bad. I was hoping for a lively Winterfest gift.”

The words, the tone… all lightness and glib humor. Aran wondered if he’d missed something. Maybe all of it, all the touches and laughter and flirtation… After all, Dorian was a notorious flirt with men and women both. Maybe it meant nothing to him, just the way he was, perhaps even some unknown aspect of Tevene culture. Maybe Aran had built it all up in his head. He probably had. What would someone like Dorian want with a hoisted up puppet? “...You don’t sound too broken up over it.”

Dorian waved one of his hands with a little laugh, “I could rend my garments, muss up my hair…” He smirked. “No. I wouldn’t touch my hair. Let’s not get carried away. I won’t lie, it could have been something. But we have to be realistic, yes? If you’ll excuse me, a bottle calls. Orlesian brandy is so cheap here, it’s criminal.”

Aran watched him go; he thought about Cole’s blade sliding into the wounded soldier in the courtyard. Releasing the man from agony. Free. Maybe someday soon, if Aran was very good and very lucky, Cole would help him too.

In the meantime, he went to work. He trained. He read Cullen’s damned treatises. He wrote letters refusing the Free Marches, begging for funds, supplies, soldiers, information.

Aran exhaled slowly, allowing the hot breath from his lungs to warm the frigid air. All around them, the mountain was covered in ice and snow, the paths of pilgrims, messengers, and merchants like tiny rivulets through the endless, stark white. Inside Skyhold, the snow never touched, which was unnerving on its own. Solas insisted it had to do with ancient elven ruins beneath the hold, inside the mountain itself, though they’d yet to have any team of agents dig deep enough to find just where those runes might be.

He liked it here, though, on the ramparts, with the cold of the mountain surrounding him. How was a place like this ever lost? It was real. True. Away from the coziness of falsehoods.

They were unbearable.

He lifted the weighted blades, balancing them on the backs of his hands, breathing slowly. In. Out. He rolled the blades around his wrists to balance on his open palms. In and out. Again. His arms were getting stronger. He could remember when Heir had first arrived, first given him the weighted practice blades. Always heavier than whatever he was planning on using in the field. If he could fight with the weights, then the lighter blades would move like water. He rolled his shoulders back, holding his arms aloft, balancing the sharp, gleaming pieces.

It does not want. He could hear her unhesitating voice in his mind. It does not want. He flipped the blades, rolled them, balanced them aloft again. It is the blade. It does not want.

He wondered if she realized how right she was. Not about the art of blade work, but him. It was true. Sword or cudgel, blade or bite. Somewhere along the way, he’d lost himself. Or found himself. He wasn’t certain which was the truth, and that made him want to scream.

Was he the seventh Trevelyan, the quiet one, unassuming and forgettable? The young man with his nose in books, his fingers trailing in the soft swells of water near the shore? Was that who he was at his core? Had it not been for Corypheus’ mad machinations, would he be in Starkhaven now, still copying the great works of others from one page to another, his own story fading from memory? Parts of him yearned for those days. The quiet. The calm that always returned after every storm. The way he could simply not be. Just… float. Let the noises and concerns of those around him sift apart for him to pass through unhindered and untouched.

“No.” He rolled the blades again; his breathing a steady, concentrated rhythm now. His eyes fell closed. Again. Again. “Focus. Again. It does not want,” he murmured, rolling backward, allowing the daggers to follow his motion and balance again when he gained his feet again. “It does not want.”

It felt real, these words, like the resonance of a mallet to a gong, vibrating through his heart. Slightly off tune, but real. Close. It didn’t want. He couldn’t want. He was not himself. Only a blade. A voice. An idea. An instrument of the Inquisition. Nothing more or less. Just that. A slightly out of tune instrument that needed… finesse. Needed to be wielded.

He brought the blades slicing down through the air, then tossed them up, stretching his arms out to allow them to drop down, the grips catching and rolling back to balance on his downturned wrists.

Before the Conclave, he’d had two scars. One on his chin from falling from his horse when he was seven and another from a tumble he’d taken from a tree while climbing when he was ten. Before, he’d never hurt anyone, to his knowledge, with word, deed, or violence. Now he did not know how many men and women he had killed. He could remember every face, see their eyes glazing over as their spirits left them, in his mind’s eye. He could hear their ragged dying breaths. He did not know most of their names and probably never would.

Death had nothing to do with it, he reminded himself. The payment was all. Death is the by-product. When Heir spoke the words, she meant the payment in coin for the service rendered. But he knew a different kind. His payment was remanded to the Inquisition. His missions were theirs. His choices their weapons.

He had hurt them in other ways, too, less bloody. Cullen looked like he was in pain when he looked at the mages, likely thinking that his Templar brothers would now be all the more eager to destroy them.

Forward horizontal strike parallel to the ground, then reverse. Turn. Repeat. He tossed the blades, reset, began again.

Now, his body was littered with evidence of his violent existence. Burn scars ranged his left leg from a stumble into a fire mine that hadn’t been healed quickly enough. A thick, puckered line marred his torso where a Red Templar’s jagged red lyrium blade had sliced into his side. The gash In his thigh where only weeks ago his bone had snapped through. His knuckles were bruised, the skin cracked and bloody. His hands and arms littered with dozens of scratches and scars, some still healing from this same practice yesterday and the day before that. Others from a more pointed study. He could have wiped those scars away, drank a potion, wrapped them in prophet’s laurel, but he needed the reminders. Forgetful. Stupid. Useless. Toss, slash, stab, reverse, repeat. “It does not want.”

Maker, but he did. He struck out, the blade angled, the thrust diagonal, allowing the movement to throw him to the side, rolling over his shoulder, rise, reverse, repeat. “It does not want.” It couldn’t because it was him and he was the Inquisitor. The Herald. The voice for reason. The hand that closed the rifts. The guiding light. The… whatever they needed him to be next.

He spun on his heel, twisting, rolled backward, reversed, springing forward, driving the blade through the air. Survival at any cost. Success no matter the reckoning.

And if he ached, watched, yearned… these were weaknesses. He couldn’t be weak. Couldn’t soften. A dull blade would be felt. He had to be pure and sturdy, so fast and light as to not be seen, heard, or felt until it was too late. He rolled, cut, rolled, sliced. Reversed. Tried very hard to push the unbidden thoughts from his mind. Tried and failed. Sighed. Thrust his hands forward and balanced the blades again. Gave in. Just for a moment. If it was a distraction, he had to allow it to come, give it room to breathe in his mind so it would leave on its own. These things he could not have.

Dorian’s hair slightly out of its perfect coif after a fight, brushing his smooth forehead, misted with a light sheen of sweat. The touch of those fingers, almost too soft, like kid gloves, brushing his skin. Soothing. Teasing. Full lips parted beneath a perfectly groomed mustache. The look in those beautiful brown eyes that if he leaned a little closer, allowed himself to revel in the pleasure of flirtation just a little longer, there was so much more waiting. The way the tendons in his wrist shifted just so when he flipped a page, the muscles bunching in his arm as he threw his spells.

Cole’s whispers, soft and insistent. Those large, haunted eyes like barely bloomed spring flowers soothing and being soothed at the same moment, the way the tension melting from his features melted hearts. The brush of electricity as their fingers touched the same blade, in the same space, at the same moment. His Haven after Haven. His hiding place. His secret keeper. His reprieve from the hopelessness. His... hope?

No. No more. They trusted him with their lives. More. With the fate of the bloody world. And he was not his own, no matter how much he wanted to reach out to them, to prod and nudge and see what they wanted, what he could give, what he could take… he would never be enough, never be free. A blade cannot offer solace or pleasure. A blade cannot offer anything. It is merely a tool to be used and set aside. Aran shook his head, hard. Focus. “It does not want.” He threw himself hard, slamming his shoulder into the stone ramparts as he rolled over it, blades arcing up and out.

“You’re getting pretty good at that.”

Aran’s eyes flew open, his muscles tightening, freezing in place, his daggers mere inches from the Iron Bull’s broad, bare chest.

“You gonna give Skinner a run for her money?”

The rogue took a couple quick steps back and sheathed the blades at his thighs. He felt dizzy.

“You look like shit. Trainer keepin’ you on a tight leash, eh, Boss?”

“No. No, I just-” He turned, scrubbing his hands through his hair, searching the stones. “Maker, you should have made some kind of noise- I could have- shit, Bull.”

“I think you meant to say that the other way around.”

Aran’s gaze leaped to his, humor immediately snuffed out before it could catch. He ducked his head, then looked up again, “Did… you need something? Did we get word on Corypheus or the Red Templars or…?”

“Nope. Just checkin’ in. Since, you know, the rest of us are sitting on our thumbs. Wasting our time. Since you came back from the dead.”

“I didn’t die. I fell into a cave.”

“Uh huh.”

“Please don’t tell me you believe all that-” Aran scowled, jaw tightening as he looked away. “You’ve checked. I’m still alive. Go away.” The laugh surprised him, drawing his attention back when he would have liked to hold onto the sudden rush of anger. “What?”

“Harritt said you didn’t seem happy with this whole Inquisitor business. Said you threatened to jump out the Undercroft if he kept calling you that.” Iron Bull grinned, “Can’t say I’m surprised. You do get squirrely under attention.”

“Squirrely?”

“Yeah. Like you want to throw one of those little smoke bombs those Tempests are so fond of and disappear. Like just being looked at might… hurt.” He dropped a hip onto the stone wall, crossing his arms, and tilting his head back. His horns shone with some kind of oil, catching the gleam of the morning light. “Does it?”

“I’ll let you know if it ever happens.”

“Do you know how I got the name the Iron Bull?”

Aran blinked at the shift in topics, “Ah - I assumed you picked it. The Qun doesn’t really do names, right?”

“Right!” Bull boomed, “Dorian was right, you do have a mind like a trap hidden under that cornsilk mop, don’t you? In the Qun, we go more by, I don’t know, job descriptions, I guess. That wasn’t going to fly in Orlais.”

“Okay.” Aran was trying to figure out what to do with his hands. “Is this… I mean, it’s not that I don’t appreciate the information, I’m always curious to know more about the Qun, but right now-”

“This may surprise you, but I really like hitting things.”

“I’m shocked,” Aran deadpanned. “Why didn’t you tell anyone sooner?”

Bull chuckled, continuing, “But I picked ‘the Iron Bull’ specifically. I like having an article at the front. It makes it sound like I’m not even a person, just a mindless weapon. An instrument of destruction. That really works for me.”

Aran crossed his arms on the stonework, resting his chin on them, settling in for the rest of Bull’s story. But he didn’t continue. The silence just stretched. He looked over to find the Iron Bull studying him. “What?”

“I wonder if it works for you.”

“You being a mindless instrument of destruction?” Aran asked. “I buy the destruction part, obviously, but mindless? No. And - Maker, Bull - the Iron Bull,” he self-corrected, “You’re so… you. I don’t think anyone could think of you as a ‘thing’.”

“But they do you?”

Aran opened his mouth, shut it.

“Sounded a lot like some of the shit we learn in the Qun when I came up here, which - hey, if you’re interested, I’d get a big party for converting you, but I gotta ask - what does ‘It not want’?”

“To be talking about this,” Aran quipped.

“I hear that,” Bull said companionably, unmoving.

Seconds. Then minutes. The sun continued to rise, shifting from red to yellow. Aran studied the change in colors, memorizing their movement through the clouds.

“It a secret?” the qunari asked. “I’m great with secrets.”

“And passing them on to the Ben-Hassrath. I know.”

“Oh, a secret from the Ben-Hassrath? Now my horns are tingling.”

Aran snorted. “No. I just- what are you doing here, Bull? I didn’t think anyone knew I was even up here.”

“I heard,” he grinned, “from that ghost-demon you’ve gotten all attached to. Seems like he’s the only one you have time for these days outside that war room. Him and Heir. Two ghosts. I think maybe you’re trying to tell us all something.” Before Aran could speak, he continued, “Remember, back in Haven, you said you’d protect me from magic. Then the biggest, baddest mage I’ve ever seen came sweeping down on an archdemon dragon.”

“Yeah, well, clearly I’m an idiot.”

“Now I’m running errands for a demon.”

“He’s not a demon. He’s a spirit-” He rubbed his face wearily. Maker, he was too tired to keep making this distinction for people. “Should I make a sign?” He wondered aloud. “Post it on a wall somewhere so you people will finally-“

“Pay attention? I do. You need someone to get you, just understand, without explanations. He can do that. You think that mind-reading ‘spirit’ doesn’t know what you want from him?”

Aran started, flushed, dropped his head. “He doesn’t- I don't- He’s a spirit. I didn’t- Did he say something?”

“‘Did he say something’-” The Iron Bull repeated with a laugh. “He never stops talking. No filter. The guy’s scrambled like an egg. Let’s see… what was it again? ‘He thinks he’s alone, but only people can think and he doesn’t believe he’s people anymore. You have to make him people again.’ Something like that.”

“Damn it, Cole.”

“What else - oh, right. You’re letting a bunch of rebel mages wander around the camp, unsupervised. You brought a ‘Vint in and buddied up to him.”

Aran folded, his fight gone. “Dorian’s not a threat to anyone.”

“He seems pretty fucking threatening to the Venatori.”

“Worried about your fellow Ben-Hassrath getting on the wrong side during their infiltration?” Aran shut his eyes, “Anyway, he’s not my ‘buddy’ if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“He makes you nervous.”

“Dorian?!” Aran shook his head hard, “No! Not at all! Why would you even-”

“Now, now, no need to get your feathers ruffled.”

“I don’t have feathers,” Trevelyan muttered.

“I notice things. You want him, then you don’t. You’re with him all the time, then you die, come back, and the Vint’s back in his cups.”

Aran’s brows drew together, “No- what? I didn’t die- I don’t not-”

“You don’t get to like anyone, that it?”

He looked out over the snow, thought about lying, about the number of lies he already had to live with. “Yes,” he said quietly. “That’s it. But if he’s back in his cups, it’s naught to do with me.”

“You don’t think.”

“How could it?”

The Iron Bull squinted at him. “You tell me.”

“He doesn’t care, why should he-“ Aran frowned. “You think… what? That I hurt Dorian’s feelings?”

“That’s exactly what I think. And I’ve been trained to read people. Why would I make this shit up?” Iron Bull asked, chuckling. “Get Dorian drunk enough - easy these days - and he’ll talk your ear off about it. They have these things in Tevinter, toys for kids, they call them snapgadgets. You roll them out and they snap back to you. Little fire runes on them, so you have to move fast or get burned each time. He’s got some choice words about you and those.”

Aran dropped his head into his hands. “Fuck.”

“Exactly. And sitting around Skyhold, waiting for news, not getting out there and killing things, that’s not helping anything. This a rule you got handed in that pile of papers from Josephine?”

“What?”

“This ‘I almost died; I’m staying at Skyhold. I can’t get laid; instead, I will juggle knives at dawn’ thing you’ve got going.”

“You think… Josie…” He choked out a laugh, shaking, “Maker, maybe, I haven’t finished reading everything she’s given me yet, but I doubt-”

“That she realizes that you’re a man? With manly interests? I bet she can guess.”

Aran slanted him a dark look. “Don’t say anything to her about this. Please. Maker knows what she’d do to me.”

“Not worried about what I’ll do to you?”

“I’m experiencing that right now,” Aran said, exasperated. “It’s downright unpleasant.”

“Oh, you wanted pleasant- see, you get that when you’re nice and upfront and ask for things. Communication,” the Iron Bull grinned. “Go fuck Dorian, get him in a better mood so he doesn’t fry us all accidentally. Then let’s suit up, get out there, and kill some things. Demons, bandits, Venatori… pick one and let’s slaughter them. Put those fancy knife skills of yours to good use.” He lifted his brows when Aran just stood there, staring at him. “Did I stutter?”

“-No.”

“Well?”

“That’s- you can’t just-”

“Sure I can. I just did. Get the ‘Vint and pound one out. See. I did it again.” He hopped off the wall with more dexterity than any man his size should have had. “Come see me when you’re done and I’ll get the horses saddled.”

“I’m not going to-” He didn’t get to finish the sentence. Iron Bull’s broad, calloused fingers closed on his jaw, tugging his face up and holding him in place.

“Don’t,” he growled when Aran tried to jerk from his grasp. He smiled when the movement stopped. “Your self-pity bullshit ends right now. You think that’s not what this is? You think you pulling away from everyone is what they need? You’re the boss, Boss, whether you like it or not. Everyone here needs you to step up and be out there, doing shit. Whether I like it or not, we need someone with magic to get shit done out there. I’ve seen that much. That crazy ‘Vint is the only mage in this whole stronghold that doesn’t drive you or me crazy after a day on the road. You want him. He wants you. So stop torturing everyone and get it done.”

“I can’t just- Maker, if I _did_ hurt him- but I really can't think- regardless, he deserves better than-“

“Let him decide what he deserves and what he doesn’t. Let me decide what you can and can’t do. It’s called ‘delegating’.” He loosed Aran’s jaw, nudging him in the direction of the stairs. “Now.”

It was a dismissal if he’d ever heard one, but Aran couldn’t summon the spirit to be offended or argue. He’d been told what to do and where to go. He went.


	3. don’t, don’t you want [explicit]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Plot-induced smut. Sandwiched in more plot. Trevelyan gets orders and follows them to the letter. Or at least, he tries his best.
> 
> If you do not like explicit m/m, skip to the next chapter where the plot resumes.

He found Dorian in the library, a glass of wine in one hand, scowling at the book in his lap. The Iron Bull’s orders and sheer wanting had driven him there without question, but he balked at that frown. How was he supposed to make any of this right? “You’re the most devastatingly handsome man I’ve ever seen in my entire life.”

Dorian’s eyes flicked up from the book, brow drawing together in consternation. “We are in a library. Keep your voice down.”

“I have no idea why you’d want me, now or ever, but if you do-” He paused as Dorian stormed from the chair, taking him by the arm and dragging him into the stairwell. 

“Just what in Andraste’s name do you think you’re doing?” he hissed. 

“Apologizing?”

“In front of the entire library? You realize we’re surrounded by spies - your spies, true, but that doesn’t make them any less spy-ish.”

“Spy-ish?”

Dorian huffed, “I’ve been drinking.”

Aran felt the sudden need to press the mage against the wall and kiss him long and hard enough to taste which vintage it was. Selfish. Stupid. But still, he wanted.

Dorian scowled at him. “Don’t look at me like that. We’ve already agreed that no good can come of such things.”

“I’m an ass.”

“I’m inclined to agree, but that’s neither here nor there.”

Aran flexed his hands at his sides, reminding himself not to reach out and touch. “Can I show you something? If you like it, you can have it. And if you want me to leave after that, I will.”

“If it’s your nethers, I’ll take an artist’s rendering discreetly sent to my room.”

“It’s not.”

“Pity.” He frowned thoughtfully, eyeing Aran with suspicion. “What is it?”

“A place. Just a place I think you’d - I think you’d appreciate it.”

“Hmm.”

“Please.”

Dorian rolled his eyes, waving his hand, “Very well. If only so that no one sees you pleading with me in a stairwell, of all places. Maker knows what nonsense these people would come up with.” He lifted a brow. “Well, go on. I’ll be behind you, watching, where the view is best.” 

The words were spoken so quietly, without any of the teasing or humor that his voice so often held. Not angry. Hurt. He had hurt him. Improbably. Fuck. “Okay.” He turned down the stairs, guiding Dorian silently through back halls and down more stairs, past the kitchens, to one of the spaces Cole had given him. It might have been a cellar at some point in the past, but now the shelves were full of books and sundries. Since the first time Cole had shown him the room, he’d been storing books and maps there - little things that gave him pleasure, pieces of interest for when he retreated from the world. The strange shards they’d been finding were all lined in a glass case against the wall, his notes on them scattered nearby. 

Dorian stepped inside, peering around the room. “And this is…?” He brushed his fingers over the case, “Research?”

“Puzzles.” Aran leaned against the wall near the door, giving the mage space to wander as he wished. “Everything… out there… It gets distracting. I can’t focus. I don’t want us to get surprised again. I need to figure out what our next step is - I don’t know why it has to be me, but it does, apparently. Maybe because no one else wants to decide.” He cleared his throat, “You know that my father is a Bann-”

“Terribly impressive, I’m sure,” Dorian murmured absently, leafing through the pages of a series of notes. 

“I’m the youngest. Of seven.”

“Sweet Andraste, your poor mother.”

Aran frowned, “I’m trying to explain- because when we spoke last, you seemed to think that-”

“It really doesn’t matter.” Dorian smiled, too bright, “Let’s not talk about that, shall we?”

“It matters because- Look. It’s not you-“

“I’ve heard this one before, you know. I already know the ending.”

“I hide here.” Aran waved at the room. “I hide here because I’m a shit leader and a worse person. Because I get people killed. Because I was never meant to hold any sort of power over anyone. Because all of this - Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste insanity - is so foreign to the way I’ve lived my entire life, I feel like I might well still be in the Fade. Last year, you could count on two hands the number of people who knew my full name. Even Archivist Welkin never learned my first name. I worked for him for years and I was never more than ‘You’ or ‘Boy’. I was used to it. To being no one, going anywhere, no one giving me a second glance. This is torture, Dorian. In so many ways. I can’t go from one place to another without someone bowing. Bowing. To me. It’s madness. And because I’m Bann Trevelyan’s son, they assume it’s normal for me. Because why shouldn’t it be? It’s expected, even for a seventh son, of a family like mine. Only that isn’t my life. I’m not handsome or clever or gifted. I’m nothing. No one. I’m not a Herald of anything. I’m a thief. I’m a rat that survived an explosion. That’s it.” He forced himself to look up; Dorian was peering at him with a one articulately lifted brow. “What I’m trying to say is - I don’t know how to do this. Any of this. I don’t know how to lead. I don’t know how to be who they want me to be. Who anyone wants me to be. I think I was so much better when I could move without notice. I could do good things. But this… figurehead… prophet… bullshit… I feel like I’m losing my mind. And it was so easy to think- to fall into that strange… attention… to think that you might want me. Even if it wasn’t… real. I wanted you to stop looking, before you saw how- how what you think I am… I’m not.”

“What do I think you are?”

The question was quiet, barely audible over the pounding in his ears. “I… don’t know. Someone worthy.”

“Worthy.”

“Of you.”

“Of me.”

Aran frowned. “Are we playing the echo game?”

Dorian breathed in slowly, let it out. “What mortal man could possibly be worthy of me?”

“None,” Aran answered honestly. 

“Tut, you flatter me.” The mage eyed him thoughtfully, “Devastatingly handsome, you were saying?”

“More than anyone I’ve ever seen.”

“Hm.” He glanced down to rub some invisible speck of dirt from one of his nails, “According to you, that’s not terribly many.”

“I’ve seen hundreds. They just haven’t seen me.”

“Difficult to believe-” He lifted a finger when Aran started to answer. “But I did only meet you after you were already leading a group of ne’er-do-wells against the Templars. And you have seemed… less than pleased with scrutiny. Most of the time.”

“All of the time.”

Dorian sniffed. “Now, now. Let’s not stray into fantasy. I’ve seen you swagger when you know I’m watching you.”

“I don’t swagger.”

“You most assuredly do.”

“If I do - and I don’t - That’s different. I like you.”

That seemed to mollify him. “You do, hm? Well, that’s nice.”

Aran dabbed his tongue to his lips, watching Dorian study him. “Is that… what you want?” he asked.

“To be liked? Oh, yes, it’s the entire point of my existence-“

“To watch.” Aran brushed his fingers over chest, lightly, studying Dorian’s face. He nudged one of the buttons of his jerkin open, saw the slight shift in Dorian’s eyes. Heat. He unbuttoned another. 

“What are you doing?”

“Apologizing,” he said, steadier this time. He kept unbuttoning the jerkin because Dorian didn’t say to stop, but only watched, eyes darting, slowly losing control of his polished mask. When the jerkin was fully undone, Aran slipped his fingers beneath the leather, drawing his fingertips down his chest over the light cotton shirt. In the quiet, he could hear Dorian’s soft intake of breath. He shifted his shoulders, rolling the jerkin off, letting it slide down his arms, then drop to the floor. It pooled there. Silence except for the sound of pooling leather. He brushed his fingers down, down. “I do want you,” he whispered. “I never stopped wanting you.” 

“Hardly surprising,” Dorian quipped lightly, but his voice was rough. “And hardly the point.”

He unbuckled his sheath. The blades in their banded leather grips dropped to the ground with a thump. 

“You know you’re just going to put all of that back-“ 

Aran untucked the cotton shirt from his pants with one tug, then drew it up over his head and tossed the fabric to the ground between them like a challenge. It was warm down here, near the kitchens. The heat and scent of cooking trapped in the narrow halls and small rooms. He skimmed his fingertips over his bared chest. He was too narrow, hips and shoulders, his ribs nearly visible in his lean build. The muscles in his body were lithe, lean and strong, newly wrought for speed not strength. He would never have called himself attractive, not to the degree that Dorian’s gaze feasted on him in those moments. Now he questioned. Was it the power he craved? The Inquisitor. The man with the mark. If they had met in different circumstances, would he ever have caught the interest of a man like this? He rested his fingers on his collarbone, brushing down over one soft brown nipple; the flesh tightened under his touch, under Dorian’s study. Did it matter?

Dorian’s gaze flicked between him and the open door beside him. “Alright, you’ve had your fun. Now if you’d-“ He silenced abruptly when Aran dropped his left hand to his waist, tugging the laces and slipping his hand into his pants. 

He breathed. Slow and deep. Head tilting back to rest against the wall, peering at Dorian through half closed eyes, his hand hidden from view inside the leather pants. “I want to touch you, every time I see you. I dream about the times you’ve touched me-“

“I haven’t-“ 

“Yes. On the coast, helping me up that cliff, your fingers brushed my wrist when you pulled me up.” He skimmed his fingers up his chest, nuzzling his right wrist as he continued stroking himself. “When you straightened my doublet for that meeting with the Antivan dignitaries… you touched my neck. Your hands were so warm. Smooth. Strong. The way you stroked the back of my neck, after the Breach.” He hissed softly, rolling his thumb over the weeping head of his cock inside the leather. His adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. 

“For-“ Dorian’s tongue darted out to touch his lips as he glanced at the door, gaze snapping back to Trevelyan as he sped his strokes, hips rocking forward into his hand, the waist of his pants sliding down… down… The leather caught around his knees as he continued stroking himself, his cock weeping eagerly. 

“My lord Pavus?” The curious voice of one of the cook’s assistants queried from the hall. “Is everything all right? Can I help you find something?” 

“No!” Dorian hurried to the door, bright and beautiful, sweat making his features gleam. “No, everything’s fine. Thank you!” He shut the door, quick and firm, turning to Aran with a haughty speech prepared in every inch of his expression. 

Aran’s thumb was there, gleaming with precum, a scant inch from his lips. 

“Damn,” he whispered, then sucked that digit into his mouth, rolling it with his tongue. 

Aran groaned, taking the touch of the other man's tongue as permission, toppling forward to press his mouth hungrily to Dorian’s neck. “You taste so good,” he moaned, leaving off himself to press his hands to Dorian, gathering silk into his hands as he stroked the mage’s chest, arms, back, eliciting sighs and groans. “Maker’s breath,” he licked a line up Dorian’s neck, nibbling along that strong jawline, to finally press his lips to Dorian’s, drawing that mouth to him with the crook of his thumb. As their tongues touched, tangled, Dorian wrapped a hand around his bare length in one slow stroke. Aran moaned deep, sinking to his knees at the pitiful sigh of disappointment as his cock slid from Dorian’s hand. Only to replaced with an unsteady groan as he fumbled beneath the mage’s robes, kissing his hips through the silken folds, seeking and finding the firm staff hidden beneath. 

“Oh-“ 

The rogue ducked his head under the cloth, lapping indelicately up the inside of Dorian's thigh as he stroked the other man’s length, firm and pulsing against his palm. He pressed his mouth to the base of that long, curved shaft, breathing deep, listening to the small, low sounds escaping Dorian’s throat. He mouthed the base of that shaft, lapping it with the flat of his tongue, his hands sliding up and down Dorian’s muscular thighs. Maker, he was like a statue, all planes and angles. Aran groaned, greedy, skimming his tongue up the sensitive line beneath that curving length and sucking the glistening tip between his lips. The hands that found the back of his head and neck through the robes were all the permission he needed. He grasped Dorian’s tight, high ass, squeezing the flesh against his palms as he took more of the length in his mouth eagerly slurping and sucking the firm flesh. 

“Ah-! Yes-!” The mage groaned, stroking his head through the robes. 

Aran slipped fingers into his mouth alongside that dripping length, stroking with tongue and fingertips, drawing delighted, desperate noises from the man before him, then skimmed those wet fingers over Dorian’s hip, drawing them down the cleft of his firm ass, moaning as he took more of the mage’s cock into his mouth. Lightly, he brushed his fingertips against the tight bud of that entrance, listening carefully, heartened by the tightening of the hands on his head, the groaned, “Yes-!”, those beautiful thighs shifting apart to give him better access. He rubbed his wet fingers against the hole as he sucked and lapped at Dorian’s cock, finally sliding the tip of one finger just inside. Dorian’s hips bucked forward into his mouth, shifting down onto the digit. He swallowed him whole, breathing heavily around the velvet length, taking Dorian’s pulse with his tongue as he worked his fingertip in and out, deeper and deeper. 

Dorian groaned, rocking between the rogue’s mouth and fingers, bracing against the wall with his hand. “Fasta vass…” he rasped, rubbing the back of Aran’s head where it bobbed beneath his robes. “I’m-“ It was the moan around his cock that did it, eager and hot and wet, the sound reverberating around the whole of his length as a second finger pushed into him. Dorian jerked, groaning, pouring his seed down Aran’s throat, shuddering as he felt the other man continue to suck and swallow, fingers thrusting deeper, faster. He pressed his forehead to the wall, bucking erratically, as his sensitive flesh continued to be sucked and plundered. 

He felt Aran’s hand leave his ass, fingers grasping his softening flesh, stroking him even as the rogue took both fingers and cock into his mouth, slurping and stroking with eager abandon. “Fuck-“ he gasped, then groaned as those newly soaked fingers replaced the ones inside him, driving into him, scissoring his tight entrance wider… looser. “Yes- Maker-“ he rocked his hips back into the deepening touch, rolling his forehead back and forth against the warm stone wall as Aran’s mouth continued sucking and moaning around his softened cock. “Ah- Ah- fuck- fuck me- yes-“ Still, it went on, that hot, wet tongue rolling over his sensitive head, lapping up every last bit of his seed, rolling the whole of his cock around in his mouth as Aran’s fingers pounded and stretched him. He could feel his flesh beginning to tighten again under the assault. “Fuck me-“ he groaned, thrusting back onto those driving fingers, “fuck me, fuck me, fuck-“ He gasped as Aran’s mouth released him, felt the man’s stubbled chin rub against his upper thigh, lips pressing eager kisses to his cock as it twitched and bobbed under his attention. 

“You’re so tight,” the rogue murmured, tongue sweeping over his taut balls, still thrusting his fingers deeper and deeper, “I want-“

“If you don’t take me right now, I will murder you,” Dorian growled. He was dismayed and pleased as Aran mouth and fingers left him, spotting the rogue emerging from beneath his robes. 

The man was disheveled, lips full and red from effort, sweat beading on his brow and lip, pale cheeks flushed. His steady blue eyes gleamed as he looked up at Dorian, “you should be illegal,” he gasped, sliding up to standing with the wall at his back. 

Dorian surged against him, pinning him there, kissing him hungrily. He could taste his seed on the man’s tongue, smell his sweat on his skin, and the fellow groaned under the assault, kissing him back eagerly, taste for taste. The mage moaned, grinding his hips against the Herald’s, gripping his hard length.

“Don’t-“ Aran gasped against his lips. “Don’t. Your hands are so- I want to fuck you. I won’t make it.” 

Dorian beamed at him, letting go, “By all means.” 

He ducked beneath Dorian’s stabilizing arm, suddenly behind him, gathering the robes up and over Dorian’s hips, baring his ass to the air. He smoothed his hands over those perfect globes, squeezing and caressing him, rubbing his fingers at Dorian’s entrance again. 

“Aran-“ Whatever he had been about to say vanished from his mind as those talented fingers surged into him once more, three digits wide, and the fingers he’d seen pick locks in seconds began to… twitch… inside of him. For a moment, the sensation itself was distracting enough he didn’t wonder why until one digit brushed that spot inside of him and a soft cry escaped his lips, his hips rocking back towards Trevelyan. The rogue pressed a hard kiss to the back of his neck, pressing his fingers against that spot again and again until Dorian was squirming, twisting his hips, thrusting back onto those fingers. 

The sight was spectacular: the so-collected, staggeringly beautiful sculpture of a man keening, forearms pressed to the wall, head bowed, the folds of his robe decadently scooped up to his lower back, stuck there with sweat, his ass bare to the room, fucking himself eagerly on his fingers. If this was the only time he’d have this marvel of a man, he was going to make it count. He drew his hand back slightly, biting his lip as Dorian just thrust his hips back farther to take him in deep again. “Maker, but you’re beautiful,” he breathed, rubbing the head of his cock between Dorian’s thighs as he continued to pulse his fingers against that spot inside the mage, “I could watch you like this all day. Riding my hand like your life depends on it, all… plundered…” 

Dorian groaned deep and loud, thrusting back harder, grunts of effort a soft staccato in the midst of the ongoing moans. 

Aran drew his fingers free as Dorian thrust back, back, back in search of him. He smoothed his hands over that tight ass again, squeezing, spreading Dorian's cheeks, and positioned the head of his dripping cock against the prepped hole. He rolled his hips, rubbing the tip in circles at the sensitive opening while Dorian squirmed and moaned, then pushed slowly forward, sealing his swollen head inside the mage. He shut his eyes, head falling back, adjusting to the tight, hot channel gripping him. “Fuck-“ he groaned.

“Yes-“ Dorian answered, panting, and rolled his hips back for more. 

The rogue held on, fingers pressing hard where he tried to control those eager, rolling hips, pulsing bit by bit, deeper and deeper, gasping, “So tight-“ He pressed his forehead to Dorian’s back, panting.

“More-“ The mage begged, his muscles clamping and releasing the cock inside of him. “So full- more- now-“ He moaned when Aran obliged, finally, drawing back a little to thrust himself to the hilt. Dorian’s teeth buzzed at the gentle slap of their balls, then groaned as the rogue rocked back further and sank into him again. “Aran-“ Slowly, agonizingly, the rogue reversed his process, long retreats followed by heady assaults, until he was sliding almost completely free with each thrust before sheathing himself utterly. Three. Four. Endless anticipating. His name became a mantra on Dorian’s lips. The mage’s cock was more than halfway erect again, bobbing and eager, tenting his robes near the wall. Then the damnable rogue shifted his hips and drove in, quick and deep, pinpointing that place that made Dorian shudder and swear, knees buckling.

They scrambled, Dorian bracing, Aran shoving him against the wall with the force of his thrusts. He kicked Dorian’s foot out to the side a step, rolling his hips up and under, and driving deep into him, again and again, while Dorian groaned and took every thrust like a gift, barely able to keep to his feet. Deeper. Harder. Deeper still. He braced, hands splayed, thrusting back on to that skilled cock, groaning. He bowed his head with the effort, feeling Aran’s barely controlled, ragged, hot breath against his spine, watching his own cock jump and bob in its silken tent, the head rubbing delectably against the agonizingly soft material. Harder still. He gasped again and again as their balls met, slapping wetly together with each deep thrust. 

“More, kaffas, yes-“ He nearly howled as Aran’s hand came around to wrap around his length, sheathing him in his own robes, stroking him firmly as he thrust in time. His mouth was open, hot and panting, teeth just barely pressing into the skin on either side of his spine as the rogue groaned, fucking him, stroking him, filling and surrounding him. Dorian crested again, pouring his seed into the makeshift pouch Aran had made of his robes, shuddering. The rogue fucked him still, rhythm lost, rutting deep and hard without any of his previous technique. Dorian glorified in that abandon, bracing himself to take every wild thrust as the rogue bored into him, teeth pressing harder and harder against his back as the man tried and failed to stifle his own moans against Dorian’s flesh. 

He could feel when Aran was close, breath erratic, the rhythm of his hips shifting with every thrust: slow, hard, fast, light. He shook, hand spasming around Dorian’s silk-wrapped cock, filling Dorian with a blossom of wet heat as his thrusts rippled and slowed to a subconscious roll, sliding in and out as Dorian’s internal muscles flexed around him, milking the last of his seed from him as they both caught their breaths. 

“This,” Aran whispered against the sweat-damped silk at Dorian’s back.

“Hm?”

“I want an artist’s rendering of this,” he smoothed his hands over Dorian’s hips, the small of his back, the muscular, pliant cheeks.

“What! Of my ass?” Dorian chuckled.

He rocked his hips gently, watching his flesh pull and stretch as he drew back, then fold back into that well-fucked hole. “That, too,” he murmured, thrusting again. 

“More and more shocking, my lord.” 

“You’re incredible.” His fingers danced over bared skin, “Maker, I want to see all of you.”

“Putting the cart a bit before the horse,” Dorian murmured, pressing his cheek to the stone. Rough. Warm. 

“This is good, too.”

“I’m so pleased.”

Aran flexed his hand around Dorian’s cock, caught in wet silk, drawing a moan from the other man. “All tangled up,” he murmured, “ass in the air, holding me inside of you, panting against the wall-“

“A regular meretrix effiminatos,” Dorian chimed in, chuckling weakly. 

“Stunning,” Aran corrected him. “Gorgeous. Intoxicating.”

“Go on,” Dorian murmured, slanting a slow, meaningful smile over his shoulder. 

“Shall I, my lord Pavus?” he asked, rolling his hips, glancing down as he felt some of his seed drip from Dorian to slide down the base of his shaft to his balls. “I suppose I shall,” he pressed a hard kiss to the back of Dorian’s shoulder.

“Hmm?” Dorian peered inquiringly over his shoulder with lazy, sated eyes, frowning just a touch as Aran slipped free of him a moment before “Ah-“ His eyes slid closed as he felt the cool touch of the tip of Aran’s tongue to his ass, dainty little dabs, licking his hole clean. “The things you do,” he whispered, then choked, moaning, as his cheeks were drawn apart and that talented tongue drove into him, twisting and sucking at his hole. “Maker-“ he groaned, hips rocking toward that thrusting tongue as it pressed into him, licking him inside out. He lost himself in the sensation, then groaned as a finger joined the tongue to press- “Ah- oh-“ He drowned in sensation again, sighing as the rogue kissed his fingered ass, his taint, his balls, peeling the seed-soaked silk from Dorian’s softened cock to suck him clean there as well. 

“Off,” Aran moaned, muffled by the robes over his head and the cock filling his mouth. 

Dorian flicked buckles and catches and laces aside with years of practice, peeling the robes off and tossing them to the side. He smiled wide as Aran drew him down to the floor, leaning him back and spreading his thighs wide to continue his ministrations. “Insatiable beast,” he sighed. 

Aran lifted his head, warm golden hair plastered to his freckled forehead, licking his lips. His gaze brushed over Dorian’s body, lapping up the view with his eyes as thoroughly as he’d lapped up his seed with his tongue. “They should make a statue of you. Or twelve.”

“Twelve!” Dorian chuckled, loose and relaxed as his body was touched and kissed and admired. “Gracious, where would they all go?” 

“There’s an empty room beside the Maker’s Bride-“ Aran lifted Dorian’s knee up and over his shoulder, kissing the flesh there, rubbing his softened cock between the upturned cleft of the mage’s ass again. 

“Heresy!” He looked down his body, watching the rogue at work, “I’m fairly certain it won’t work like that.”

“Ye of little faith,” Aran scraped his teeth across Dorian’s knee as he pushed his soft cock back into the mage’s well-fucked hole with his fingers, bit by bit, then ground his hips forward, their balls slick and wet, pressing and peeling. “See? Better.” He nuzzled Dorian’s lower thigh, kissing the smooth, spiced skin. “Coriander?”

“Look at you, clever boy,” Dorian sighed. 

“What else? Honey? And… I can’t place it.”

“I can’t tell you all my secrets.” Dorian’s eyes drifted closed in pleasure. “I’m reassessing my theories about the southern Chantry.”

“I was a scholar, not a priest.”

“Nevertheless.”

Aran groaned against his skin, feeling his cock shift and begin to reassert itself. “I’m trying to decide…”

Dorian winced, “Don’t. Don’t decide things. Not right now.”

Aran searched Dorian’s face as it turned away, eyes closing, “Dorian,” he whispered. He skimmed his fingers up that sculpted torso, brushing warm brown nipples in a sea of caramel skin. “I’m scared of a lot of things. I’m not scared of this. Not you. It’s my fault-” 

Dorian pressed his lips together, swallowing a moan as they shifted against each other. 

He touched the other man’s smooth chin, turning him, leaning down to press a rain of soft kisses on his lips, cheeks, chin, eyes, nose. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you all the things that were- I should have given you that choice. I was wrong.”

Dorian sighed, sinking his hands into Aran’s hair and pulling him down to kiss him deeply, rolling his hips down onto the burgeoning cock inside him again. “Just shut up, would you?”

“More then,” Aran murmured. “What can I do?” He licked Dorian’s lower lip. “How can I show you?”

“Shut up, shut up,” Dorian hissed, grappling him to kiss him breathless. With a grunt of effort, he twisted his hips and rolled them, seating himself deeper. He pressed his fingers into Aran’s mouth to still his tongue, only to find his fingers licked and sucked and kissed. He gasped, almost laughing, riding the rogue until they were both a sweaty, tangled mess. Dorian panted, head bowed, his left palm resting on Trevelyan’s pale, narrow chest, fingers of his right hand still filling the rogue’s mouth, thumb curved around the man’s jaw. He watched, still loose and sated from pleasure, as Aran’s lips closed around those fingers, his tongue rolling around each fingertip. He allowed himself the moment of quiet to look, watch the trickles of sweat down curves and planes of tight narrow muscle, the pulse that leapt in the rogue’s throat and under his palm, the pearlescent spatter across the other man’s soft stomach. “I’ve made a mess of you,” he murmured.


	4. when you say that

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it takes a demon to make people say what they feel.

Aran hummed softly, brushing ghostly touches up his arms to lightly touch the damp curl of Dorian’s hair against his forehead. 

“Not the hair,” he chastised lightly, plucking Aran’s left hand into his own and smoothing his thumbs over the mark there. “Does it hurt?”

Aran bit his lip, hesitating. “Yes,” he said finally. “Every time.”

Dorian lifted his brow, “You should speak to Solas about it.”

“I have. He said I would get used to it.” He shrugged. “Maybe I would, if I were… anyone else. A mage, like you or him. Or if I was stronger. Maybe I still will, but so far...”

“What’s it like?”

“Uh…? Pain?”

Dorian hummed, pulling his palm up to study it more closely. “Yes, but what kind of pain?”

“I- it’s…” He struggled to come up with the words to explain it. “It feels as though my skin is two places at once. One hot, one cold. And it’s… weaving through itself.” He frowned. “Solas says it acts like a rift; that’s how it works the way it does.”

“So you close rifts with another rift - it makes sense in the way of Fade things.”

“I can open them, too.”

Dorian blinked, his fingers stilling on the mark. “This is the first I’m hearing of this… why?”

“Because I haven’t told anyone?” Aran tried an awkward smile. 

“Are you mad?” Dorian snapped, thrust out of his post-coital haze by intellect and concern, “Are you out of your tiny mind? You’ve no training, how on earth-” He shook his head, climbing off the rogue, eliciting a complimentary ‘oof’ from the man beneath him. “Come along, get dressed, we’ll go to that blighted elven somniari and-“

“Dorian! There’s no need- Cole’s helping-“

“Oh, I see! The odd little spirit assassin is helping you with complex metaphysical training.”

“He was the one who showed me how to do it in the first place.”

Dorian stared at him. “You realize that if you told almost anyone else here that little nugget that they would hunt the boy down and slaughter him?” He hissed, then lifted a brow, calculating, “Of course you do. You’re telling me because you know I have a soft spot for bad magic.”

“Interesting magic,” Aran corrected. 

“Yes, trust the ‘Vint to allow demons to experiment with rifts out of curiosity.”

“I do trust you. And he’s not a demon.”

“Don’t quibble with semantics, Inquisitor. I am the quibbler. I know very well he’s not a demon. Do I look like a wet-eared Laetan to you?” Dorian huffed. “You need to be careful,” he murmured, softening, “for his sake as well as yours.”

“I am.”

“No, sweet, you are a number of things, but careful has not been one of them in my experience.” 

“He wasn’t experimenting. He knew. He saved me.”

Dorian watched him carefully. “Go on.”

“After Haven, after Corypheus-“ He frowned. “I- there were demons in the caverns I fell into. Old, forgotten places. Cole thinks they must have come through for the miners who were trapped there, dying, but then they couldn’t find a way out. They were… worse than anything, Dorian, anything I’ve seen. Black-ragged, wretched, empty…” his voice cracked, remembering, and he focused on one of the intersections of stone on the ceiling. Dorian took his hands again, gently, and Aran swallowed, trying to dislodge the sudden ache. Warm fingers on fresh scars. Empty, no hope, nowhere to go, no point in telling, nothing would ever make it better, all of it-

“Look at me,” Dorian instructed quietly.

Aran turned blind eyes in the direction of the voice and felt a warm curl of power wrap around his heart. The hollow space lodged just beside it, beneath it, shifted, shrinking. A rough gasp escaped his throat as Dorian’s fingers pressed points in his wrist, his shoulder, his neck, his temples, clinical and concerned. 

“Tell me - these - Aran. These aren’t all accidental, are they?”

Aran opened his mouth to lie, gaze slanting from Dorian’s, and heard the Tevinter swear. 

“You’re not going to like this,” the mage murmured, “but I’ll try to make it less awful.”

“Wha-“ He screamed, then, as icy agony erupted behind his eyes, the cries swallowed by Dorian’s lips and tongue as the mage kissed him hard and deep. 

Dorian pressed firm fingers into Aran’s temples, vacillating his attention between kissing away the screams and glancing at his hands. Slowly, the wet, dark ooze began to pool where he touched. He twisted the tacky substance around this fingertips like twine, dragging it as it resisted, trying to burrow back inside. Aran was writhing, sweet Andraste; the thing was lodged too deep. Dorian frowned; he could keep pulling, dragging it out, but the risk to Aran’s mind was too great. Then again the sure-fire way to destroy the creature was going to hurt so much more… Possessive demons were a tricky business. Better to be rid of it, then salve the pain. He bent down and kissed Aran with every ounce of himself, pouring his admiration, regret, lust, wanting, love - Maker, he’d been trying to leave that out of everything - into the touch of tongues, lips, breath. Then he added his power, lacing flames along the breaths, wincing as Aran screamed and tore at him, trying to push him off. He held on, thrusting more of those ephemeral flames through his fingertips into the creature, feeling it combust in the wake of the fire until every trace of it was gone. 

Aran sagged, sharp-eyed and shaking, in Dorian’s grasp as the mage touched and kissed and whispered against him. 

“You had a rider,” Dorian murmured. “A despair demon. That’s what you found in those caverns, I’m guessing? Devilish creatures. I should have guessed it by the way you’d changed when we found you. The moment Varric made noises about you seeming different. The one time something isn’t about me.” 

“Rider?”

“Indeed. All this time they’ve been worrying about Cole possessing you, you had an actual demon all of your own. Very clever.” Dorian smiled, but it wasn’t a smile. A curve of lips that was more concern than anything else. “How are you feeling?”

“Like you just... burned my head... from the inside out,” Aran croaked.

“Yes, there is that. Give me a moment.” He plucked his robes from the floor, searching through the myriad pockets seen throughout the garment. “Here we are,” he murmured, returning with a few vials. “Elfroot and prophet’s laurel for the pain, a dash of lyrium for the psychic energy. Three weeks,” he shook his head as Aran took the vials. “Three and a half? And you say you’re not strong. Maker’s breath. That’s enough of the lyrium, Aran, give it here. A lesser man would have succumbed in days, the way it was tangled into your head.” Dorian drained the rest of the lyrium vial, then took the other little bottle from Aran and placed them to the side. “Better?”

“Not… how I saw this going…”

“I should have warned you that exorcisms are a traditional part of Tevinter love-making.”

Aran attempted a smile that ended up looking more like a squint. “Fuck.”

“Oh, very well, Tevinter fucking, then. Somewhat indelicate, but you are a barbarian-“

“Not- Maker’s balls, my head-“

“Ah. Yes. I did warn you. But the thing was all wound up in your psyche.” Dorian smiled, “You feel a bit less… possessed now, I hope?”

Aran bit his lip, “Hard to tell through the splitting headache.”

“Right. Let’s put you to bed.” Dorian dressed quickly, pointedly ignoring the swatch of damp cloth in his robes, then looked around and found a few scraps of cloth on the table near them. “Word of advice - let’s keep this between us, yes?”

“The demon part?” Aran smiled crookedly, shutting his eyes.

Dorian blinked, looking at the fellow, naked but for his boots, flushed and panting on the floor, Dorian’s jism cooling on his stomach, bruises and scrapes and scars littering his lean body, his cock soft resting against his thigh. The man had had a despair demon eating the hope out of his brain for weeks and remained standing, working, fucking him into senselessness...

“Dorian?”

“Hm?” The mage cleared his throat, “You haven’t been in your right mind. It’s alright. No harm done. We’ll get you back to-“ The rogue growled. Actually growled. “Are you certain you’re not part qunari?” Aran scowled at him, an expression that didn’t succeed terribly well due to the wincing. He grasped Dorian’s calf and stroked his skin. Dorian managed, barely, not to moan. Whatever strength he thought he didn’t have, the rogue had hands, sweet merciful Andraste. “Aran-“

“Listen.” He was clearly struggling to keep his eyes open. 

“The prophet’s laurel mixing with the lyrium is going to make you sluggish. We need to-“

“Dorian. Listen.”

Dorian listened. 

“I-“ Aran dampened his lips, “When I said those things-“

“It’s alright. Possession. Despair demon. You-“

“That’s just it. It was despair. Hopelessness. Not- Maker, look at you. You’re all ready for me to do it again. I can’t profess my undying affection when you’re looking at me like I’m about to kick your puppy.”

“Undying affection, is it?” Dorian murmured softly. He went to his knees carefully and began to clean Aran’s stomach with the rag. 

“I had a plan, you know?”

“You do seem to be fond of plans.”

“I had a bottle of Legacy White Shear at Haven. Varric was going to-“

“You brought Varric in on this?” Dorian asked, surprised.

“I wanted to cover my bases. You were tough to pin down.”

“Not today.”

Aran grinned, then winced, “Ow, don’t make me laugh.”

“Dreadfully sorry. You were saying.”

“I was saying that you were… flirting but distant and I didn’t know how to move forward. You’re… better at the talking part than I am. It’s like… trying to beat a chevalier when you’ve only ever practiced with wooden practice swords.”

Dorian smiled, “You were doing just fine.”

“I thought I was, then I thought about how- well, Maker, Dorian, you were as likely to flirt with Flissa as you were with me and I wasn’t sure if you were actually interested, so I wanted to have a second set of eyes on it.”

“And you chose Varric.”

“He’s my friend. And he’s very observant.”

Dorian thought of the way the dwarf had come to him, asking if he’d seen the Inquisitor around, wondering where the hell he’d gotten to. He’d come, Dorian realized, because he’d expected if anyone would have known, it would have been the man the rogue was planning to woo. The frown he’d gotten when Iron Bull had slapped his ass and asked him about another round. Not judgement for two men, or the Vint and the qunari. Frustration for his friend. He owed Varric a bottle of something dwarven and swilly. 

“You know those swatches were for Halamshiral, right?”

Dorian looked down at the now-stained squares of cloth. “Not the green. Blue looks best on you. And me. Let’s not forget me. Red is garish, but I suppose a speck of it wouldn’t hurt, if you’re trying to sell the militarism-“ 

“Why is she asking me when she should be asking you?”

“Maker only knows. Maybe she hasn’t seen your armor very close. Arms up.”

“What’s wrong with my armor?” The rogue asked, lifting his arms as the mage helped him into his shirt.

“Where to start? Snoufleur skin? And bloodstone greaves? It’s horrendous. At first, I thought you might simply be trying to make the enemy blind and nauseous.”

Aran smiled, and now the expression was looser. The drugs were working. “I love your brain. Can I tell Varric, at least?”

“That Harritt should be shot? Certainly. Come here.” Dorian drew Aran up and leaned him back against the desk to draw his pants back up. Clinical. But for the small grazing touches. 

“About us. Or-“ Aran frowned, then just as quickly smiled, “No. About us.”

“What was that?”

“I wondered for a second if you’d want there to be a… you know, more of this, less the demons, but then I remembered that Bull’s really observant, too, like Varric, and since he sent me to you-“

“He what?”

“Said you were pining for me and that I should make you walk funny.” He was slurring a little, smile wide and satisfied. 

“I was not pining-“ Dorian choked, “Wait, you lured me into a dungeon because he told you to?”

“I didn’t lure you into a dungeon. This is my secret place. Secret, secret place. Where I can think. I thought you’d want a place to think, where people wouldn’t muddle through your papers like they do in that alcove, always thinking you’re working on blood magic or sending secrets to Tevinter. Idiots.” Aran smiled, a smug superior expression that was more than three sheets in the wind. “I thought you’d like it. Maybe forgive me. For being an ass.”

“Yes, yes, it’s very nice. An excellent space. Very thoughtful. Let’s return to the bit about the Iron Bull.”

“‘Stop sulking, get off your ass, fuck him, kill things,’” Aran beamed at him, loopy, fingers brushing up Dorian’s arm. “You’re really handsome. And you’re doing that backwards. C’mere.”

“Not just this moment,” Dorian finished lacing the rogue’s pants, although he didn’t stop the rogue from touching him. “He- why- hold on, are you saying that you wouldn’t have-“

Aran tapped his head. “Thought I was an instrument to be used, no personal anything anymore, trapped, lost. Wouldn’t have put you through that.”

“But the Iron Bull-“

“He’s really hard to say no to, have you noticed that? He gets this grip on you and all the thinking goes away.”

Dorian rather had noticed that, actually. “I see.”

“Do you think it’s a Ben-Hassrath thing? Or just him? I think it’s him.” He laughed, “Cole told him. Can you imagine. Blighted mind-reading angel.” He laughed again, eyes dancing, “Maker. I’m a spiderweb.”

“Perhaps I gave you too much lyrium…”

“He does this thing: helping, wandering around, putting pieces in place so that things fix themselves. Not just in parts. By wholes.” Aran clasped Dorian's shoulders, leaning up to kiss him hard. “Dorian, I-“

“You’re high as a kite,” Dorian sighed against the rogue’s lips. “Don’t go making any declarations. Let’s just allow this to be what it is, yes?”

“Alright,” Aran kissed him again. “I do, though.”

“That’s very nice. Let’s put you somewhere to sleep this off.” Dorian swept his arm around Aran’s waist, bracing him against his side, “There’s not going to be a way for this to look good for me, I think.” As Aran slumped against him, the mage sighed again. “No, definitely not.”


End file.
